


And Then There Were Three

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Building Trust (with mixed results), Developing Business Partnerships, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Empires, Married Life, Non-Canon Storyline, Out with the Old-In with the New, Overprotective Father Figures, The Joys of Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: The end of the beginning.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, all! Yes, I have returned with my 3rd "Gotham" series. To be clear - this is not compliant with the season 3 storyline. It's paving its own path through the fandom. This being said, there will be plenty of familiar faces forthcoming. I hope very much to please my dear fans who have encouraged me to this point.
> 
> There will be a second part to this segment, currently in the works. Please stand by. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no characters, events, or others associated with "Gotham" or "Batman". I just have a lot of imagination and some free time.

“I said, _no_.”

For as bitterly cold and lacking compassion as Gotham is in winter, she becomes an overbearing monstrosity incinerating the sky with scalding heat, day and night. Air conditioning units are the only reprieve for those who do not wish to experience a heat wave akin to the seventh layer of Hell, and these wondrous devices are (typically) used shamelessly from May to early September. In the previously-titled Falcone manor, three of said units are used, without pause, and both staff and visitors are the only human beings presently residing in Gotham to dress fit for the Arctic Tundra. It simply can’t be healthy to be surrounded by cold air, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but there are certain circumstances at work here which, for the sake of self-preservation, don’t warrant protest.

The mistress of the household being six months pregnant is one of the aforementioned.

“Iris,” Oswald huffs, frowning a bit at the way he can see his breath cloud and then a bit more at this woman’s obstinacy, “what use could you _possibly_ have for a place like that?”

“Sentimental purposes.” She answers primly; between them, she is in the only one looking wholly relaxed in sub-zero temperatures. Pale grey is her color of choice today: a dress of light cotton designed to fit loose and gently swaddle the growing swell of her belly. Her hair is drawn up, baring her neck save for a few loose strands, and as such this is possibly the most casually-dressed Oswald has ever seen her. It’s a stark contrast to his three-piece suit, which was torture in the mid-day heat but presently saves him from bearing any closer resemblance to his moniker.

“ _What_ sentiment?” he scowls, jabbing a finger at the papers—one of many, being sorted through with no sense of urgency—spread across the polished cherry wood of her desk. “It’s a whorehouse, Iris! A place of debauchery and sexual shame and all manner of God-knows-what! …And even _that_ I could forgive if it weren’t such a dreadful eyesore. No interior decorator worth their pride would admit to coming within fifty feet of it.”

“It was the first establishment Marcus ever put into business.” She sighs, reclining a little deeper into her chair. “And it remains a cheap dive only until tomorrow night, when the deed transfers and I obtain full rights to knock every last wall into the ground.”

“If you’re going to toss a wrecking ball through the front door, _I_ could just as easily take it off your hands and do the same.”

“No, Oswald.” She shifts again, for the fifth time in ten minutes; she must be experiencing problems getting comfortable. “I have plans for that place, as I do for all the adjacent businesses.” With a swiftness he wasn’t expecting, she produces a red marker and draws a sprawling circle around a substantial section of downtown Gotham, as displayed on the map laid out to the side. He scowls at the sight.

“And just what am I to have left, when you’re done picking off the ripe fruit from the tree?” he grumbles, glaring at her in a way that, he’s sure, resembling a sulking child. Not his proudest demonstration, but still.

“Must you always be so dramatic?” Iris rolls her eyes lightly (uncalled for, says he) and retrieves a dark blue marker to contrast the red. “I am not a selfish partner—in business or otherwise. Which brings me to the greater question at hand: what is to become of the club?”

“…What do you mean?” Does she believe he intends to sell it, or do some remodeling? Perhaps the latter? “Well, I suppose the furniture is a bit outdated.”

She makes an affirmative hum, which he takes as permission to continue thinking aloud. “And I really should replace the window coverings; terribly drab, come to think of it. And I could use a new desk…and maybe the curtains—”

“Oswald,” she sighs heavily, pushing a hand through her hair, “you are thinking far too small. Little improvements here and there are mere window dressings, so to speak. You should be envisioning on a grander scale. Lord knows you have in other matters.”

He ignores the little jab for curiosity’s sake. “How grand?”

“The club still reeks of Fish Mooney.” She replies. “And that will not stand. The woman is a wretched memory; nothing more. Seeing as you are so eager to blow up one of my establishments, I should think you might be equally inspired to do the same with your own.”

“Iris!” he gaps, appalled at the mere suggestion, “I _personally_ selected the new carpet! The tables! The lampshades! The—”

“—The exterior design?” she interrupts, looking unnecessarily without compassion. “One which resembles the European museums commemorating their glory days of torture and illicit sexual escapades?” A moment’s pause, while she adjusts herself again (and looking rather irritated at having to do so, he notes), then she continues, “Where is your elaborate imagination when it is needed most, Oswald? Or do you propose me to believe the thought to tear down and rebuild has never passed your mind?”

Fortunately, he is granted reprieve from answering in the exact moment: the study door opens and the bespectacled figure of Edward Nygma—Oswald recalls the man in a different time, a different place, and a bit less in the way of annoyance than he presently does—enters with long arms fully-laden with bags. The tall man lightly nudges the door closed with one foot, hops backwards, and then resumes his easy forward stride. In place of rather drab grey suits, as Oswald remembers from their first encounter, Mr. Nygma has taken to wearing a rather fetching shade of dark green matched with black.

“Alright, my dear,” he says with good cheer while delving into his bags and retrieving boxes, one after the other, to set beside Iris, “one box of fried pickles with ranch, a full order of calamari with extra sauce, two scoops of peanut butter ice cream, and an extra-large strawberry lemonade.”

Iris slips a hand around one cheek and plants a rather impassioned kiss on the other one. “What would I do without you?”

“Perish the thought.” Nygma replies, looking quite pleased with himself. “I have to get back to the office, but if all holds steady, I’ll be back by eight.”

“ _Bog na vashey storone_ , my friend.” She murmurs, with one last parting kiss. What the fine men and women at the precinct will think of the dark red lipstick imprints on both cheeks, Oswald is rather grateful to not be aware. If neither Nygma nor Iris have care for scandal, then far be it for him to introduce the topic into conversation.

“Mr. Cobblepot.” The tall man acknowledges with a polite nod before taking his leave. There is little more than pleasantries between them, on any regular basis: Oswald has yet to confirm as such, but he strongly holds the belief that Nygma is among the several who still regard him with great suspicion. Being friendly isn’t the name of the game right now.

Alone once more, Oswald lets himself take another look at the spread laid before his—Partner? Business associate? What _does_ he call her these days?—before Iris, which she’s already enjoying with obvious relish. …Pickles? Calamari? _Ice cream_?

“Oswald,” she says, popping a pickle in her mouth, and he realizes too late that his staring hasn’t gone unnoticed, “when you get pregnant and your body starts demanding culinary combinations which were never meant to be, _then_ you can start making judgments.” Another pickle, and a brisk downward nod, “Now, where were we?”

***

The past months have been rife with change. This strange tide-turn relationship which has yet to bear proper title (Oswald as elected to call it a “truce” for want of better terminology) was only the first, established over two glasses of sparkling cider. From there, Iris was swiftly gracious and established pardon amongst her clan; while no one questions _her_ , a forgiving nature is not bred in their blood, and only Butch greets him with any degree of civility. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, one of many he’s digested in the past year, but Oswald presses on out of respect for Iris and this blossoming relationship. The rest, he endures with grace fit to make Mother proud.

Then, three or four months passed and a different change was brought to the forefront. Oswald is quite certain he was not personally meant to know, at least in the manner he was informed, but a child’s excitement knows no notion of propriety: amidst a very stern lecture from Alexander Orlov (a fate Oswald shall never wish upon his worst enemy) containing unveiled threats left and right, little Peter flew into the sitting room with unbridled delight, shouting for his father, and then came the source of such enthusiasm:

“She-Wolf has baby inside her!” Peter cried, all-but bouncing in his father’s lap. “She has little pup inside!! She is going to have a baby, Papa! A _baby_!!”

Well, it goes without saying that Orlov responded—not to Peter, but to Oswald—with perhaps the most furious glare known to mankind. It was a look which dared him to start plotting against Iris; to conceive some terrible scheme now that she was with child and vulnerable for it. And, truth be told (albeit in silence; he was hardly about to give Orlov reason to misinterpret his words), Oswald likely would have begun formulating such a plot—were it six, seven, twelve months prior. Was he tempted to fall back on old habits? Such are very difficult to break, and Temptation is ever delighted to rear its head when the opportunity arises.

But no such plans have been developed, nor will they be. The “little pup”—these people have an unhealthy passion for correlating everything back to wild beasts—inside Iris is not only _her_ child, the child of a woman with whom he is attempting to build some sort of mutually-beneficial relationship, but it is, by association, Jim’s grandchild.

Oh, and there is the father to consider.

Victor, Oswald is sure, was as delighted as the man could possibly be to hear the news. But such is a display reserved for private affairs, not in the face of the man responsible for putting five bullets much too close to the heart. Victor remains ever impassive in the family’s presence. The neutrality was broken only once, when opportunity arose in Victor’s favor and at Oswald’s expense: a business discussion with Iris ran too late in the evening, and Oswald can only suspect his wandering eye to her belly was noticed unfavorably, because Victor personally showed him to the door and promptly hemmed him in against the nearest wall.

“I’m watching too, little bird.” He breathed, blue eyes nearly black in heavy shadows. “Every word you say, every move you make, I’m watching.” One hand ascended and lightly tapped his shoulder. “And I still have a debt to collect.”

Subtlety was never Victor’s strong suite, after all.

***

Summer never lingers long in Gotham, but the abrupt change in seasons is so drastic it even makes news headlines. The autumn chill and torrents of rain arrive before August even draws to a close. Driving down the street poses all manner of dangers—from losing traction in a puddle to, having no visibility out the windows, consequently wrapping the car around a telephone pole—and most citizens consider it better to cut their losses and just stay inside.

By the time autumn becomes winter, all bets are off. It doesn’t just snow in Gotham: it blizzards. The weather borders on apocalyptic. Outside, the windows are opaque, frosted white and bitter-cold to the touch. Iris imagines this, truly, is how it might be to live inside a snow globe.

She doesn’t watch television as a general rule, but now turns the device on from time to time as the days pass. The mayor—anxiety-ridden wreck of wasted life—is all over the news, declaring states of emergency, closing down the city, rounding up the homeless, etc. In other words, the city is effectively on lockdown. A fine way to ring in the Christmas season, but Gotham has never been wholly touched by the holiday. She herself remembers little worthwhile from childhood, but she’s not the same little girl anymore. She is a woman, and she has made a house into a home. If she wants to decorate her house for Christmas, that is her prerogative.

Grandmamma was a connoisseur and collector of antiques and vintage decorations: glass and porcelain, hand-carved wood and white-stone; each one obtained over the years—some from previous generations, passed down from mother to daughter—and wrapped carefully to preserve them year to year. The intricate features of the tree-top angel are as flawless as ever, from the hair tumbling downward in elegant golden waves to the luscious colors of her dress and the splayed glory of her wings, tipped in pale blue and grey. The colored baubles are of a higher quality than the cheap knock-offs available in stores; the garland has been packaged with absolute care, not gnarled and scraggly. Strange, how she knows the flaws of Christmas decorations better than she does…well, anything beautiful or redeemable of them and their purpose.

No more. The past is the past.

She finds a collection of petite candles, purple and white, and fashions them each a little stand of gold. It takes an hour’s worthy of creativity and imagination to properly fasten and scatter the candles along the tree—the handsomely endowed pine Butch cut down a week prior (blessedly just before this dreadful weather) and set up in the front room. The remaining daylight hours are spent adorning the tree, lights and baubles and ornaments; by the time night falls, she’s addressing the mantle with garland, red ribbons, and a stout pair of ivory candles to frame the display. Without natural illumination, the room is cast in the warm glow of candlelight: soft, gentle, beautiful.

Two hands weave around her waist, settling at the swell of her belly. Feeling her child grow inside has been an unmatched experience, but eight months have trudged uncomfortably into nine, and she is quite past the point of being a human incubator.

“You’ve been hard at work, I see.” Victor’s voice is uncommonly soft, remarkably gentle; he must have had a productive afternoon in the basement. He cradles her against his chest, thumbs running light over her stomach. “Quite a display…Norman Rockwell would be jealous.”

“Content as a kitten.” She sighs, head lolling back into the crook of his shoulder. “Did you kill him quickly, or is your cuddly temperament the result of extreme dismemberment?”

“You know me so well.” He smirks at her hairline. “And if you want _cuddly_ …I can comply with that.”

He settles her on the couch, purring in her ear and nuzzling the hairline. Definitely extreme dismemberment.

***

Christmas arrives in two days. The house is decorated, there’s a delicate aroma of scented candles and baked goods floating through every room, and the snow is still falling. Reception on the television dropped about half a day ago, so whatever mess is steadily unfurling within the city remains a relative mystery. Iris is grateful that Selina is spending Christmas at Wayne Manor; she’ll have a good meal, sleep in comfort, and (no doubt) make Bruce Wayne’s holiday singularly special—or at the very least, unforgettable.

With the roads being in such terrible condition, she knows Christmas will be a quiet affair. The family won’t be able to make the journey safely and she’s already told them, repeatedly, to not try. For her first Christmas—and really, that’s exactly what it is; she has absolutely no memory of Christmas before being taken in by James, and even then he wasn’t exactly…well, available to make anything special of the holiday—perhaps it’s better to make things private. Just her and Victor, as it once was, not so very—

The first pain is, to say the least, uncomfortable; it’s more than a twinge of discomfort and leaves her needing a moment to regain composure, but she’s certainly endured far worst. The next is equally unsettling, but no more so. In all likelihood, she’s just tired out from all the decorating and kitchen work. It’s nothing serious.

By the afternoon, little twinges have gradually grown past the point of annoyance, somewhere in the vicinity of increasingly-painful. It’s unsettling. Confusing. She knows her body’s endurance levels, has learned even more about her body in the past months, but this is something entirely different. And she doesn’t like it.

The five o’clock evening hour is punctuated by a sharp piercing blow in her lower belly. It feels like a knife lodging deep, being twisted about five times, and repeat. Tenfold. With acid being poured on the wound. Then she feels something hot, and wet, streaking down her thighs.

_Oh God. Oh sweet merciful God…the baby._ The baby is coming. The city is blanketed in ice and snow, there’s no access to the roads or hospital (as though she’d ever consider having her child in a damned hospital), and her body feels like it is being cut in half with a dull sawblade. _No, **no** , please…God, **please**. It cannot be…not now…!_

The next blow cripples her; only a clawing grasp on the wall keeps her from plummeting to the bedroom floor—bathroom. She needs to get to the bathroom. She can’t….can’t have the baby on the bedroom—as though the bathroom is any better? But what options does she—?

She ponders too long, delays when she should have moved, and now she’s left to crawl the distance. It’s humiliating, but the pain doesn’t allow for pride. If she must crawl to get from one place to another, so be it. It isn’t as though she’s left with another option.

***

White. Too much white. Why in hell did she let the bathroom stay white? She hates white. White, white, white, and—

_Red._

She wants to scream, but all the sounds her throat seems capable of are wordless and strangled pitches of sound. Somewhere, at some point in life, she remembers reading that a scream helped alleviate the emotions otherwise churning recklessly in the body: a volatile explosion bubbling up from the core and fit to erupt—but it won’t, it can’t, and she’s left to suffer for it. She wonders why screaming helps. What purpose does it really serve? Is it just some old wives’ tale established as solid truth, or is there some factual basis to it?

Oh God, who the hell cares? She’s trying to deliver life in a cold, sterile-white, unfeeling bathroom. Pain is ripping her apart, she can’t scream because her throat is locked tight, and…and she’s trying to deliver life. A baby has been growing inside her, for almost a year, and now the time has come. This baby isn’t just something tucked away and thought of with great fondness; a fantasy imagined with quiet smiles and all manner of plans for a future not yet brought to reality. But now…now it’s real.

_My baby._

“ _Victor_!!!” finally, the scream she’s all-but begged God for permission to release; it comes on the wings of another agonizing ripple, clawing between her thighs. In this quiet sterile space, her voice echoes and resonates poorly on her eardrums. The next sound she makes neatly surpasses the common definition of “scream” and hurls itself into the category of “shrieking”. It grates on her vocal chords and leaves her coughing violently in the aftermath.

But at least it travels well, and it certainly gets results.

She has a thought to ban him from the basement, but doing so will only end badly—after all, the more time he spends there, the better mood he’s in—and so she’s simply left to curse her husband in five different languages for not being here sooner. Considering the circumstances, he’s a little too calm, bordering on cheerful, and she openly advocates for clawing his face off.

“You would do well to remember, this,” he gestures downward briefly, “was started with your wholehearted, and quite eager, participation. Now, calm down. The stress isn’t good for the baby.”

“ _STRESS_?” the word explodes off her tongue, “ _You_ are the cause of every stress in my life, Victor!!”

He rolls his eyes heavenward (the “clawing face off” option returns) and sighs heavily. “Fine. If it will keep your mind off everything else, let me have it.”

“I cannot reach your neck, otherwise I would.”

“Your attempts at humor are falling a little flat, darling.” She can feel his hands between her legs, and her nerves freeze with dread; the last time his hands were there, not for romantic purposes, was in college, after her sixteenth birthday, after that boy… “You have something to say, now’s the time to say it. Get it out.”

“I…” another contraction slices through her, “…I do not know how.”

“I know.” He sounds…disappointed? She’d nearly dare to say, were he a different man, he almost sounds sad. “You’ve always been terrible handling your emotions.”

“Oh, and _you_ are?” she snaps. “The only time you are in a good mood is after you have mutilated, massacred, degraded, and eviscerated a human body past the point of recognition, and _I_ am the one who cannot handle my emotions?”

“I was away for a few months, and you tried to claw my throat out.”

“I tried to claw your throat out because you left me without notice— _after_ I begged you never to do so again—”

“—After you promised to harvest my internal organs with your fingernails, should I do it again.”

“Which I am still considering!!” she wishes for something, anything at all, that can be used to hurl at his head. “You impossible man! The things you have done to me—the _hell_ you have put me through—!”

“Then hate me, Iris.” He says, voice a little tighter than usual; to untrained ears, it would seem nothing more than a sign of irritation. To her, it’s the knife’s edge gleaming in light right before it plunges into flesh. “Hate me, and turn this marriage into an exact replica of your parents’. Between the two of us, we’ve proven far more efficient than either of them; I imagine we’ll kill each other within the first year. Might even make the headlines for a few weeks.”

It’s a cold blow, and a cruel one. Possibly even crueler than the pain of childbirth. It’s further confirmation that he knows just where to hit her, how deep he knows to cut and how much salt he can pour on the wound before she crumples. He knows her. He knows her terribly well. She wonders who knows each other more intimately. Who, between the two of them, knows how to hurt the other more.

Maybe…maybe it’s her.

Another contraction; this one splits every seam in her body, and she screams. Victor’s hands abruptly clench around her thighs, and she hears him say something about pushing. That it’s time to push. _How_ is she supposed to push? Her body is falling apart, every thread pulled and plucked without mercy, and she’s supposed to _push_?

“No.” she distantly hears someone—her—whimpering. “I cannot…I c-cannot.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t!” she sobs; it will only occur to her, later, much later, this is the first time she’s spoken—as Detective Bullock rather unkindly said, more than once—like a normal person. “I can’t, Victor, I—”

“Look at me. _Look_ at me!” his hands are wet, streaked with blood and God-knows what else, but the grip he has on her face is unyielding and he’s suddenly right there, barely a breath from her lips. “Iris Mara Zsasz, you went willingly with a complete stranger in the middle of the night and let him hold a knife to your neck. I asked you to choose where I should cut, and you didn’t even blink. You have stood at my side for almost _ten years_. You chose me over your job—over Jim Gordon’s frequent and unnecessarily-vocal protests. You chose to be my wife, to carry this child. The child we made together. Not because I seduced and manipulated you. Not because I carted you off to Europe, forced you into my bed and raped you. We have made this child because you—you broken, damaged, maniacal, psychotic emotional wreck of humanity; you unearthly, ethereal, glorious creature; you, my every fantasy brought to life—love me. We are _in love_ , Iris, and this child is living proof of it. Now pull yourself together and _push_!”

…She has the strangest urge to laugh. Not the kind of reckless, shameless, unwarranted laughter that people make while they double-over at their own terrible jokes, but the kind of relieved, breathless, gentle laughter brought out in a moment of absolute clarity. Why it comes now, when she’s giving birth in her own bathroom, she doesn’t know and couldn’t be bothered to care. What matters right now is forcing her body into ways it was never physically meant to go, just to get this baby _out_.

She screams again. She can’t help it, not when the entire lower half of her body feels like it’s been ripped apart. She screams, shrieks…and then the pain fades. Well, it doesn’t go away, not completely, but _God in heaven_ it’s nothing like it—

“The baby…” she whispers; her throat might as well be coated in sandpaper, and spending the next week in complete silence holds great appeal, “Is…is it…?” _Please, please, **please**..._

A broken little cry, nothing compared to the agonized shrieks which have been vibrating off the walls for hours, trembles through the air: first one, then another, and then Victor straightens up. His shirt is cast in some random corner of the room; the pale light streaks bright over his tallies and the thin sweat glistening on his skin. In his hands, a squirming little figure of limbs: dirty, flushed red, absent any real defining form, but it cries a song familiar to her heart and both arms extend before she’s even aware of moving.

“She’s fine.” Victor whispers, breathless. He surrenders the baby to reach for a towel; without a thought, Iris brings a tiny head to her breast and watches, awed and with rapt fascination, peace settle over those crinkled features and smooth them out. A heartbeat…the same song heard by those little ears for nine months, a lullaby and awakening tune all in one, and now in a world of cold and bright lights, it is familiar and soothes all fear from this delicate form.

Fingers tremble at their first touch, brushing over features so fragile; she barely draws breath, as though it might disturb the tranquil peace which so swiftly followed endless hours of anguish. At her side, she feels Victor draw closer, a towel slowly draped over mother and child, and then his fingers join hers for first touch.

“I found her again.” He breathes. She’s never seen him with eyes so enraptured, drinking in every last detail with barely a blink, barely a breath drawn into lungs. “Finally…she’s here.”

“And this time,” Iris murmurs, brushing her nose at his cheek, lips ghosting a familiar place, “it is no dream.”

It takes a few hours—bringing them well into the late evening—to clean everything up and, solely with Victor’s support, settle on the bed instead of a cold bathroom floor. She relaxes into the familiar shapes of her husband’s body, head at his shoulder, fingers gently caressing their daughter’s downy crown. There is a cradle, purchased some months ago, in the far corner; she might be put to bed sometime later, or she might stay exactly where she is: nestled atop her father’s chest, fast asleep. The sound of her soft breaths echo gently between them.

“By the way, you’re wrong.” Victor murmurs, hand lazily tracing paths up Iris’ bare arm. “I can be in a perfectly good mood without degradation.”

“True.” She mumbles, already slipping into a place of dreamless bliss. “But doing so puts you in an even better mood.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future is set in motion.

“Oh! So beautiful!” uninhibited as any mother’s arms might be in the presence of a child, Gertrude Kabelput reaches out and glides tender touches over the baby’s face. “I tell you, do I not?” now, she addresses the mother with a twinkle in her soft eyes. “You make beautiful babies! Beautiful, just like her momma.”

Iris humors the elder; after all, she cannot begrudge such a display from of a woman of Gertrude’s…well, let it be simplified as “peculiarities”. She harbors no ill intentions, only a lack of awareness concerning social standards and personal boundaries. It is the same kind of pardon one gives an elderly grandmother at family reunions, because the woman has lived long enough to earn the right to behave as she pleases.

Besides, all is well while Celeste is kept close to her heart and nowhere beyond her mother’s arms.

“Mother,” Oswald says, in the tone of one notably embarrassed and attempting to repair the destruction of social decorum, “I’m sure Iris is quite tired. Why don’t you let Butch take you on a tour of the house, while Iris and I discuss some quick business matters? And then we’ll leave.” He’s ushering the dear woman out the door while he speaks. “I’ll take you to dinner at that little café, afterwards. Thank you. Thank you.”

Gertrude is shown from one door to the other. Oswald leans heavily against the nearest wall, huffs a weighted breath, and then composes himself with a barrage of apologies. “She heard me talking to you over the phone.” He explains, lowering himself into the first available chair. “After that, there was no dissuading her.”

“She means no harm.” Iris murmurs. In her arms, Celeste shifts a little and coos softly. It has been a week, and she does little beyond sleep and request nourishment. Iris has heard stories of babes screaming their wants, but Celeste is soft-spoken. Her first cries were tender, a light timbre in the air, and so they remain. She does not cry, but whimper. She does not scream, but addresses the world around her as polite as a young lady. As a princess not yet set upon her throne.

“You remain ever patient, my dear.” The dark-haired man sighs relief. From his left side, he retrieves a thinly-rolled collection of papers. He spreads them across the table, fingers splayed to hold each side in place, and waits for her appraisal. There is no need for explanations; Iris’ role here is to observe, consider, and then pass verdict. She leans forward, as little as necessary, and looks over the blueprints. The diagrams are lavish and incredibly detailed, each one etched in Oswald’s cramped handwriting; there is nothing overlooked here, and equally no expense spared when one considers what kind of architectural undertaking this really is.

She thinks to be surprised, but this is Oswald and nothing of his conception surprises her anymore.

“Impressive.” She finally decrees, complimented with a quietly-approving smile. “Have you given proper consideration to the surrounding businesses?”

“I will have you know, these past weeks have been well spent.” He says, and looking rather proud of himself. “Negotiations, day and night, to achieve a proper settlement which will benefit all involved parties.”

Her eyebrows lift in polite skepticism. “You mean, every single person agreed to your terms without objection? There is not one solitary soul with whom you have had a disagreement concerning your intentions.”

“None of particular consequence.”

“I see.” Celeste is squirming again; Iris takes a moment to adjust their adjacent positions before continuing, “Have we arrived, then, at the part where you ask to loan out my husband?”

“Loan is such an antiquated term, Iris.” He waves a hand dismissively. “But since you mentioned it…”

“Is this not something Gabriel can handle on your behalf?”

“I was hoping for a bit more…elegance in the execution. No pun intended.” She sincerely doubts that (the man has quite a peculiar sense of humor, after all) but allows Oswald to continue without commentary. “Gabe is my most loyal employee, but on occasion wants for creativity. Victor, as we both know, wants for no such thing.”

“If you want his services, take the matter up with him. I am neither his employer nor the hand holding his leash.” Now there is a tiny hand batting at her breast, and insistent little mewls dancing across the air. “A conversation which I believe can be handled at this precise moment, while I attend to other matters. Please excuse me.”

The conversation is had, apparently, while Celeste is taking her fill, and Victor has quitted the house by the time Iris deems herself presentable for public viewing. Oswald is calmly reassembling his blueprints in the study, and greets her with good cheer. The shameless delight in his expression tells her the persons in question were more of an annoyance than his nonchalant façade would otherwise imply, and he shall sleep quite well with dreams imaging their fates.

Celeste has been put to bed with a full belly, and while Iris rarely leaves her daughter’s side, even in sleep, it would be rude to not conclude this meeting appropriately. She provides a casual inquiry on a matter for which she already has an answer. The rhetorical nature of her words is received and appreciated by both, and as such goes without additional explanations.

“I shall keep you apprised of the progress.” Oswald simply says, while they walk together to the door (Gertrude is waiting there, cooing softly at Gabriel in such a way that Iris is obliged to divert attention). “It is my fondest hope that, once you have finished purging your family’s corporation, we might look to further our business relations.”

“Always looking ahead.” She smiles. “I suppose the notion is not especially unpleasant to consider. You have proven yourself reasonably courteous these past months.”

“Splendid!” he claps his hands together, once, then bends himself in a gentleman’s bow. “A good night, I bid you, my dear. Oh!—and don’t forget to let me know how the interviews go, come week’s end. I presume you are still intent on conducting them?”

“Of course.” She replies, a thinly-amused smile curving her mouth upward. “Victor has volunteered to add ‘eagerly-paternal’ to his list of personal qualifications. Though, for the sake of self-preservation, it remains in our best interests to keep such a notion between ourselves. You understand.”

“You make yourself ever transparent, my dear.” though there is a similar expression teasing his thin lips at the thought, “There shall be no word of it pried from my lips. _Abschied_.”

***

Every day for the last week, Jim unearths a new box of cigars in his desk drawers. For the less discerning patrol officers looking to make their name as a jokester, the box itself is notably absent and its contents have been so thoroughly stuffed inside a drawer that, after fifteen minutes of pulling, prying, and furiously negotiating, an eruption of cheap tobacco products comes flying like missiles. This morning, Jim arrives to all four drawers filled to their capacity and decides he really doesn’t need anything that would otherwise be stored in there.

Harvey, he suspects, is the mastermind behind this little game (tiresome as it is): there’s no particular reason for the broad smirk of satisfaction at Jim’s struggle, unfurling around the morning coffee and pastry. Except, of course, this quaint little tendency to find any amusement in anything which comes at Jim’s expense.

At half past noon, Jim makes his usual venture down to the morgue in hopes of a little peace and quiet. He gets three steps shy of the door when an ungodly _crack_ makes him jump and pull his gun in the same step. He expects anything, because this is Gotham and this city delights in nothing as much as she does throwing anything and everything at anyone and everyone. He finds a mess of melons, smeared and smashed across the floor, and Edward ascended on a small step-ladder. The man in question is fully assembled in protective gear and full-length apron, and presently has a cantaloupe extended above his head.

“I might suggest stepping behind me, Jim.” Ed says, as though there is nothing whatsoever peculiar about these circumstances. “The trajectory, as evidence by prior demonstrations,” Jim supposes that is code for the grand mess on the floor, “will direct forward and approximately 92 degrees to each side, but has yet to defy the laws of physics and retreat backward. About twelve inches to my posterior should provide sufficient protection.”

It’s his lunch hour, and he has nothing better to do, so Jim obliges and assumes his directed position. Ed readjusts, seemingly making calculations in his head, and then hurls the melon to the floor. This time, the impact is less resounding but the explosion of fruit innards is quite impressive.

“I’m going out on a limb here, Ed,” it’s always best to make these things a casual conversation, rather than a direct interrogation; the former gives one time to properly formulate the words, while the latter launches Ed into an overly-detailed explanation, “…this is related to the jumper from 5th street, earlier this morning?”

“Your intuition prevails, once again!” the bespectacled man beams, as if a father delighting in his son’s brilliance (Jim calmly ignores the fact that _he_ is the older one, between them). “And I have evidence to suggest the young man in question did not fall to his most unseemly death by his own volition. There was, as you can see,” he gestures to the floor, and Jim just smiles and nods because whatever he’s supposed to be looking at will shortly be explained, “a significant amount of force applied behind his descent, which led to the unfortunate disrepair of his skull upon meeting the asphalt. To say, it was far messier than it should have been.”

“Because he fell headfirst.”

“Precisely!” another glowing expression of pride. “Which is not consistent with how most people elect to, should they be so inclined, fall to their deaths.”

“Is it possible he gave himself a running start and leaped?” quite improbable, but one is always wise to cover all bases. “Get it over with sooner than later?”

“Possible, yes.” Ed concedes, in a way readily apparent that he already thought of it, and Jim can only imagine how those trial runs looked on the floor. “However, even taking into consideration the forward momentum of a, quite literal, running leap off the building, I find it more likely he would have come to a stop on his front or left side, given some general approximation of gravitational pull. My calculations suggest the victim was brought to the rooftop edge, quite possibly attempted to flee for his life, and then was bodily hurled to the ground. A most disagreeable way to die, really. —Did you know the best way to die, of relatively unnatural causes, is hypothermia? It’s actually quite peaceful: eventually, the body grows exhausted from trying to maintain warmth, and you slip into sleep. You don’t feel a thing!”

“Ed,” Jim says, very slowly, “how many hours in a day do you spend thinking about this stuff?”

There’s a moment of pause, which is actually more concerning than the answer which follows—“It depends on the day”—because it means Ed really spends way too much time thinking about these things. Actually, Ed just spends too much time thinking in general.

“Oh!” Ed jumps to attention, in the process of stripping the protective gear away, piece by piece, “I almost forgot!” the gloves and goggles are tossed aside; Jim takes Ed’s sudden urgency as a cue to follow suit, quietly sidestepping the disaster under their shoes, and comes to where the taller man is rifling through his desk drawer. “Things have been so busy lately—I haven’t had a moment to properly present this!”

…If that’s another box of cigars…but no, it’s not. It’s a tall crystalline bottle of Honey Merlot, elegantly trimmed with a crimson ribbon. This isn’t a typical off-the-wine-rack bottle; this is, as Harvey would assess, “the really good stuff”.

“Ed, this looks like it cost a small fortune.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Jim.” He waves an airy hand, smiling proudly. “Only half a small fortune. I do still have to pay the bills, but this is a special occasion. It’s not every day one becomes a grandfather.”

Well, he’ll admit an expensive (and tasteful) bottle of his favorite wine beats invasive interviews with a panel of sour-faced administrative professionals and a mountain of paperwork, all accumulating in a stamped, sealed, and certified document granting him full-custody of a sixteen-year-old girl described by her peers and almost every adult who came in contact with her as a “belligerent, insensitive, impertinent child with an outrageous imagination and no regard for the rules”.

As such, he can only hope for great things from his grandchild.

***

“I am not seeing much in the way of a work history.” Iris murmurs; it’s a well-honed tactic over the years, to keep her tone perfectly neutral, albeit lingering on the polite end of the scale. The other participant(s) in the conversation may then glean from her demeanor what they will: if they want to believe she’s disinterested or if she is making quiet calculations in the sealed vault of her mind. From the way she sees the man shift, nearly fidgeting atop the polished wood, it’s likely the former assumption. No matter; she’ll set him at ease in due time.

She just happens to be in no great hurry.

“Might I make a polite inquiry as to your interest in working with DeLaine Towers?” her fingers lace neatly beneath her chin and her eyebrows lift just enough to reaffirm her undivided attention. “There are far more advancements being made in other companies. Wayne Enterprises, for instance…”

It’s a baited question: Wayne Enterprises has stood as DeLaine Towers’ most aggressive competitor since Marcus put the company’s foundations in place. Admittedly, Thomas and Martha Wayne’s deaths have cost their company its better features, but with Bruce Wayne poised to step in and claim his rights as heir, Iris is confident enough the rivalry shall soon be renewed and as vivacious as in its glory years. Placing the opportunity to abandon one proverbial ship and make haste to the other is simply a sifting tool: she has to ensure the loyalties of her employees. There’s no sense in inviting someone in only to show them the door six months later.

“Oh, well…” a pause and some more fidgeting; she wonders if it’s a nervous twitch or something more inherent to his personality? “Wayne Enterprises certainly has a frab—er, I mean, impressive reputation. I considered…though, not for a terribly long time. You see, when I finally worked up the courage—I fear I’m not much in the way of a forward fellow—to place a phone call, I was informed (with no amount of tact, I should add—not to seem disrespectful!) the company possessed no interest in my…well, as you can see from my application…”

He trails off. Interviews (and perhaps public speaking) are most certainly not his strong suit, but there is something oddly charming. It beckons to her in a way not unlike Edward’s unique brand of charisma.

“I do see.” she unlaces both hands to utilize one in thumbing through the papers before her. “And for all you may lack in an employment history, you certainly make up for in years of research. Extensive graduate work—a rather rigorous curriculum, I must say—in a highly-concentrated field of study…Neuro-based Technological Advancements, and several courses in Neuropsychology on the side. You seem to have quite the fascination with regards to the human brain.”

“But of course!” now, a light erupts in his eyes—a rather sharp citrus shade of blue—and he leans forward, apparently now content to forget his earlier qualm about establishing personal space between them. “Why, the unbridled possibilities! The unexplored lands not yet touched by human hands! With enough devoted research, each and every stone could be unturned and there would be no question without an answer and no answer left unquestioned! The human brain is a…a _Wonderland_ of rapturous opportunity! We could tap into our own hidden potential, understand those dreadful ailments of the mind—even gain access into another creature’s—! Oh. Oh, dear me! Listen to me rambling…”

“Your passion is most transparent.” She says, not without an audible degree of fascination. “A pity the fine people at Wayne Enterprises were incapable of observing as much—but this can be a rather cut-throat business, and their loss is my gain. And it is a gain I intend to maximize without shame.”

The formalities return to her demeanor: one leg drapes over the other, she graces him with an elegant smile (the one Victor always says brings her precariously between a crocodile’s grin and the cat with canary feathers lining its lips), and she takes hold of his hand with crisp finality. “Welcome to DeLaine Towers, Mr. Tetch.”


End file.
